


Petite-Amie

by cto10121



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 03:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11614680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cto10121/pseuds/cto10121
Summary: She never considered herself the vindictive sort. She became jealous, yes, but not to the point of violence or irrationality. The countless nameless – and some named – girls Romeo had had were mere scratches to her armor by now, thickened by time and experience. Not even Rosaline managed to incur her ire. And at first, neither did this Juliette Capulet. Romeo/OC.





	Petite-Amie

**Author's Note:**

> Back into my old RetJ obsession, and dug up an unbelievably old piece of mine with promise. Decided to finish it and polish it up. I'm tentatively including the Shakespeare fandom in this, although this is heavily grounded in the Presgurvic musical universe, because hey, the more the merrier. Still, the major details are the same, so there should be no true confusion; I made it more explicitly modern AU than the musical goes and I use French spellings, but that's about it.
> 
> For those who don't know the original French cast, Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, and Tybalt have what the French cast describes as ''petite-amies'' - female dancers they are paired up with, although in Romeo's case, the dancer in question (played by Christine Hassid, I think, rather short with long dark curly hair) is described as ''secretly in love'' with Romeo. In my fic she's called Esther, and, well, not so secretly in love with him. I have a suspicion she is actually supposed to be the closest equivalent to Rosaline in the French musical, but regardless, I made them different characters. Mercutio's petite-amie is called Orsina here (the tall one with jet black hair), and I made her Esther's sister. This fic follows Esther's point of view of the whole events of the original French musical. All other names, except for Sergio and Sabrina, are non-canon. Hope you enjoy!

It was a beautifully carved wood, reddish brown and smooth, a pleasant enough anomaly in a mainstream and not particularly posh bar. Esther stared at the smooth surface, absentmindedly letting her thumbnail trace the side of the leg.

“Baby, not _here_.” The girl’s tone, however, was too coquettish to be taken seriously. “There are people watching.”

“And doing the same thing as we are. Come. You need a bit of kissing.”

Esther was never into furniture nor ever learned the jargon, so she was at a great loss as to how to describe the material. Mahogany? Oak? What was the difference? Whatever it was, it was darn pretty.

The girl’s half-hearted protests died out and soon she was humming in pleasure. The couch where she and Romeo were currently absconded was a horrible shade of green. Esther only saw it briefly, out of the corner of her eye, just as the girl’s naked leg bumped into Romeo’s, but the glimpse was enough. She had never seen a couch with such a sickeningly gaudy color, as though someone had vomited all over it.

“Who’s this new one, then?” asked one of the boys at a nearby table, Sergio. “Thought he was still hung over...what’s-her-name...Lisabet.” 

“That was two weeks ago, Serg,” said Balthazar, amused. “Bit slow, are you?”

“’Least he’s back in top form,” said Alfredo. “I knew he’d pull through. He always does.”

She began to scratch the table leg, deepening the depressions with her thumbnail. She didn’t know why the small gesture comforted, but it did. Perhaps because it was automatic, mechanical, almost unconscious.

Their torsos had become entwined. Esther sensed it more than saw it, and heard the distinctive fleshy popping sound. Someone wolf-whistled and the table of Montaigus burst into raucous laughter.

“What taste ‘Meo has, eh?” said one of the youths (was it Matteo?) and they burst into another round of laughter.

Yes, that shade of green was a horrible color, Esther thought furiously. A nasty, sickening, putrid color. Whose bright idea was it to bring it in here anyway? So much for being _très_ _chic._

“See? We have an audience.” The girl tugged on his arm. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

“I have a fairly good idea where.” His tone left no doubt as to what he meant. “You game?”

She slapped his arm, but giggled, and threw her arms around him.  

It was all understandable, Esther thought as she continued to survey the pattern on the table. There was little mystery for the attraction. She was comely and Romeo always had a good eye for that. And it’s no small wonder that she took to him in such a quick time, in the brief hour they had spent conversing at the bar before moving to the couch. He had a special, primitive intensity that naturally compelled, a talent for looking at women in such a way – intense and direct, unblinking, but with a warm sincerity – that made them feel as if she were special, worthy of his attention and his consideration.  

So no, it did not mean that the girls he picked were necessarily giggling, empty-headed idiots. It was just being with him was like drinking a little too much, tipsy with champagne. When the buzz wore off, as she, Esther, had seen it happen all too often, she would realize her folly.

They got up, his arm around her waist and hers around his shoulders and walked out amidst cat-calling and bawdy repartee.

Ah, fuck it. What a slut.

* * *

 

She never could quite remember a moment in her life when she wasn’t in love with Romeo Montaigu. It seemed ages ago that her sister Orsina had begun dating the charismatic Mercutio of Escalus and she introduced Esther to him and his friend Romeo. As she was very young then, he already with a great potential for a looker, she immediately developed an intense crush on him. That girlish infatuation should have died after further acquaintance with him and Benvolio and Mercutio, then several years of deep, abiding friendship. Even Mercutio never teased or flirted with her as much as he would lesser acquaintances – the trio had taken her as the de facto baby sister and it mostly stayed that way.

But the ways of the heart are mysterious and the crush transformed itself into something deep, something lingering – something Esther feared would always become a part of her.

Feared, because wasn’t that just the height of pathetic, longing after a boy for most of your life, a lovely but flawed boy with no interest in you beyond friendship, who went through girls often and frequently? Her sister knew, of course, had warned her against it. It was tough at first, heeding her advice, beginning to pay attention to the scores of boys that teased and wooed her. It became easier when she saw the girls Romeo paraded with at times – not the ones he would secretly be involved with, the ones he’d really like, but ones for-the-time-being. At some point she snapped and, in a furious gesture, moved on.

It almost felt like revenge, this rebellion, but gradually she grew to like and date other boys, even have crushes and develop relationships, in whatever pace the moment seemed apt for. At one point she even thought her childhood crush had finally gone, that her worthier, more mature loves mattered more to her than _that_ ever did. She constantly drew comparisons between Romeo and her boyfriends – one wasn’t as temperamental, another as womanizing; this one wasn’t as reckless, this other more responsible, this one more down-to-earth.

Even so, she found something wrong with them, or they found something wrong with her. They inevitably left. Orsina would oftentimes joke that she had a better track record with men than Esther – her ambiguous, label-defying relationship with Mercutio, of all people, remained more or less stable.

Esther knew why her relationships never worked out, however. She had tried to deny it, but it was the truth. Some of her boyfriends even sensed it and one guessed it, though kept mum. Not that it was so big a secret – to everyone except Romeo, it seemed, it was fairly obvious.

It was true what they say: The heart has more rooms than a whorehouse. She had never really fallen out of love with Romeo, she just added more loves to keep that old love company. It beamed inside her every time Romeo smiled at her, every time he carelessly asked her to dance and held her in her arms. He didn’t know what he did to her, of course, and if Esther had her way, he never would.

And for a long while he continued not to notice.

Then something changed.

* * *

 

The street youth chatter was abuzz one day with news: After a rough few weeks, Romeo had officially broken up with a woman named Rosaline, a bastard ward of Capulet’s second cousin. Uncomfortable link to that family aside, their relationship had been troubled from the start. Esther had tried not to follow it, to be absorbed into that drama, but it was hard. They said Rosaline was an incredibly beautiful and incredibly demanding woman, a magnificent force to be reckoned with – and from the impression Esther got, not as much into Romeo as he was into her. They waited with bated breath for the denouement.

It eventually came. Romeo disappeared and even Benvolio had a hard time finding him. Eventually he resurfaced from his melancholy, but he wasn’t quite the same. Mercutio and Benvolio could be seen trying their best to tease him out of his slump, but he resisted. She knew because she saw him one time at their usual habit, nursing a glass.

She didn’t know what compelled her to join him. Perhaps it was the woebegone look on his face, the shadowy circles beneath his eyes. In any case, she decided to risk being a bother.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Esther.” Barely looking up. 

“How’s it been going?”

His mouth curved into a humorless smile. “How’s it look like?”

The next thing Esther knew, she was half-supporting a tipsy Romeo down the street, stumbling and laughing.

It was a purple summer twilight. All was quiet except his heavy breaths at her ear; the distinctive scent of his cologne mixed with the freshness of the night air. 

She had started him en route to his house, but he shook his head. 

“I can’t face Mother now,” he said. “Can I stay at your place for a bit?”

Numbly, she changed course. Something inside of her screamed that it was not a good idea, but she ignored it. Back at hers and Orsina's apartment he rested on the loveseat while she gave him a glass of water. 

“Feel better?”

"Much," he said, voice hoarse. 

Even pale and drawn, he still looked devastating. Esther assured herself that her gesture in tucking stray hairs behind his ear was completely maternal. 

“Where are Mercutio and Benvolio?” she asked. 

“Looking for me, no doubt” came the dry answer. His eyes gazed at her, slightly unfocused, and she felt the beginnings of a flush coming on. 

“Did you do something new with your hair?” he asked suddenly. 

“No,” she replied, confused and suddenly self-conscious, running her fingers through the dark locks. 

But he shook his head, muttered “Never mind.”

With a sigh, he lied down on the loveseat, and it was a tribute to how tall he was that his feet stuck out. The sight warmed Esther somewhat. 

“You really are a giraffe.”

“Always been, I suppose,” he answered, smiling weakly. 

There was no denying it. Esther wanted to kiss him, and badly too. She stood up abruptly. 

“Just rest here awhile, okay? Don't make any sudden moves.”

“Yes, nurse” was his response and Esther felt relieved that he was getting better. 

Two hours passed and Esther wondered when her sister would arrive. At last she texted her.

_Going to stay at Mercutio’s for the night_ , was the response.  _You going to be all right?_

At a word, no. But she was hell-pressed if she would ever admit that to Orsina. 

Romeo had fallen into a light sleep on the couch. It was amazing what sleep does for your complexion, Esther mused. The mask we wear to the world is dissolved. He looked so innocent now, serene, almost childlike. The platonic warmth that so eluded Esther found, the rush was heady and welcome. 

“Esther?” He had opened his eyes wearily.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?”

“Sorry about crashing your place. Think Orsina’ll mind?”

“Nah. She’s with Mercutio tonight.” 

“At least one of us is having some fun.”

_I wouldn’t mind having fun with you_ , she thought.

He asked for some wine and with some reservation Esther acquiesced. They reminisced about their childhood picardies and pretty soon even Romeo was laughing.

“I was such a jerk to you,” he said. “We were all jerks.”

“I was pretty bratty myself.” Then, without warning, she blurted it out: “I had the biggest crush on you, you know.”

This surprised him. He turned his head, almost cocking it to the side. “Really?”

Esther immediately regretted the outburst, and quickly did damage control. “Yeah. Just...the whole big-brother-little-sister thing.” 

She was surprised when he snorted. “You’re kidding me. You used to mock me and punch me in the arm. If I didn’t know you did that to everyone, I would’ve thought you hated me.”  

“I had the maturity of a ten-year-old-boy at that age. I’m sorry.” Her tomboy phase had been rough.

“It’s all good.” Then he smiled at her and her heart went into overdrive. It was not all friendliness. “We had our fun, didn’t we?”

Funny, the way he phrased that question. “Yeah.”

What happened next proved to be a bit of a mystery. One moment they were talking casually, like old friends, tipsy from the wine, and the next moment they were climbing the stairs to her bedroom, their arms around one another, hungry and exploring. The last thought that passed through her mind before they fell into bed was that this surely must be a dream.

* * *

 

From then on, their relationship was touch-and-go, almost in the literal sense, and very physical. When Orsina was out, he came round, and if he could he lingered awhile in bed and they talked. There was blessedly little awkwardness in the transition from friends to lovers. In many real ways, nothing had really changed between them. He’d appear as he always did, wandering in as though he had done it accidentally, as if his mind were elsewhere and his feet had taken over the function. He would smile at her and kiss her in greeting and listen to her talk about her day, sometimes talking about his. They would do some preliminary fondling before going to her room. She knew she had an attractive body, and it was clear he thought so too. Their frolics had fire and spark; the playfulness of game, the lightness of their affection. Her fantasies paled in comparison to the real thing. 

And when Orsina found them out and word spread, they were accepted easily, accompanied by some inevitable light ribbing. Benvolio, to his displeasure, came out thirty liras short – Mercutio, prescient or merely facetious, had guessed the match. And needless to say, they weren’t the only ones to dabble in soothsaying. 

Not to mention that with each day that went by, Rosaline receded more and more into his memory. Esther could see it happening as Romeo became warmer and warmer, as he lingered more and more in the aftermath of their lovemaking. On one thrilling occasion, she woke up with him curled up beside her, his arm wrapped around her torso, pulling her close. They had even begun to talk of Rosaline. He was the one to bring it up, to her secret thrill.

“It wasn’t Rose that was the trouble,” he said, sighing. “It was me. Well, maybe a little of her – she was not the easiest to please – but mostly it was me. I didn’t know what I wanted, exactly. It felt like something was missing, something not quite right about us…”

(Oh, how prescient those words seemed! Hindsight was really twenty-twenty.)

There was just one thing missing from these touching acts of affection, and from their relationship in general. She loved him and he, at a word...

The first chance she got, she told Orsina her troubles.

“Oh, Esther.” Orsina shook her head. “I swear, if you've become one of _those_ women –”

“What do you mean, one of  _those_  women?” asked Esther sharply.

“You know what I mean,” said the older woman darkly. “The stand-by-your-man kind.”

“Sina, you can't be serious.”

“You think I'm joking, but there have been those around, don't think there haven’t!”

“Like you and Mercutio?”

Esther immediately regretted this, but Orsina snorted. 

“Now that's different. You don’t see Mercutio getting all tied in a knot just because I had a fling with so-and-so, now do you? It’s a can’t-live-with-each-other-can't-live-without-each-other deal. But for the life of me, I don't see you letting the other girls around Romeo.”

“No.” A shiver of cold disgust ran through her. “I wouldn't like that.”

“You see? You’re in too deep. And it’s true. You’ve been head-over-heels in love with that boy for ages. And Romeo?”

“He likes me.” Defensive. “He confides in me.”

“Likes you, sure. As a friend and a lover. But as his girlfriend? As  _both_? I don't think so.”

It was useless to protest this. Esther knew it to be true. His warmth was more heat than light; her starry-eyed proclamations were met with playful ribbing. While every moment with him stung, he was having a blast. The disparity in depth between her affections and his was a pool to an ocean. He liked her well. Maybe even passing well. While she...

She loved him. Sometimes so little she could barely stand to see even a likeness of him, but mostly so much she felt as if her heart would explode from the force of it all. She loved the way he’d arrive, as if the wind picked him up and deposited him there, and how he’d look around for a moment, as though getting his bearings. She loved his sighs, his moody silences; his laughter, his voice calling to them all. His dark-hooded eyes and how they would roll at his friends’ shenanigans – and the way they gazed at her, searing into her skin, as though she were the most important person in his life. His lush mouth curved into a smile, pressed against her lips, her heated skin, her – 

“Esther, are you listening?”

She jolted out of her reverie, and shook her head, sighing. “I’m sorry, ‘Sina. What were you saying again?”

But Orsina shook her head. “I just hope you know what you’re doing," she said. “I hope that boy knows how lucky he is. Be careful, Esther.”

Careful. She had been nothing but careful, all those years.

* * *

 

That night they had made love again, much sweeter than usual. They had gone to a party and while Esther was getting drinks she saw Romeo chatting with one of the girls, looking a bit too cozy for her taste. Her jealousy had sparked – must she always have to keep an eye on him? – and his annoyance as well. They argued over it for over an hour on the way back before they reconciled. As they made up, Esther tried not to think about the fact that this wasn’t the first time they'd fought, and curled up at his side. She could feel his deep, even breaths beside her and knew he was asleep.

_I love you_ , she mouthed on his skin.

That was as much as she had dared to say to him.  
  


* * *

 

And then it happened. Her worst fear.

The evening began as usual. Better, actually. At the warehouse their haunt, Romeo danced only with her, which made her heart burst, and he even rested his head on her lap in front of everybody. Then Mercutio announced plans to gate-crash a party. The Capulet ball.

After that night, Romeo was not seen. He disappeared again, and was only seen once, talking with an old Capulet nurse, a bad omen. By afternoon everyone was talking about it and people even started to claim they had seen them together at the balcony that night, an impossibility.

It had finally come. 

_She_  had come. 

The whole town could talk of little else. No one could believe it. The news met with blank faces, stark incredulity, horrified dismay. Most suspected foul play. Other, more superstitious ones, witchcraft. Some even thought it was very crude practical joke.

But no. It was all true. And the Capulets were the proof of it. That day they swarmed the streets, picking fights, sniffing for a quarrel. They were out looking for blood. Montaigu blood. And the rumors, diverse and confusing as they were, all said the same thing.

Romeo had fallen in love. 

In love. 

With Capulet’s daughter. 

* * *

 

She never considered herself the vindictive sort. She became jealous, yes, but not to the point of violence or irrationality. The countless nameless – and some named – girls Romeo had had were mere scratches to her armor by now, thickened by time and experience. Not even Rosaline managed to incur her ire. 

And at first, neither did this Juliette Capulet. 

But that was before she bore witness to the infamous discussion. All their crew surrounded them, gaping at the three friends, Benvolio nervous, Mercutio cold and humorless for once, and Romeo surlily defensive. She saw them trying to talk sense into him, watched as he answered sharply, pleadingly, earnestly. A magenta flower was tied at his waist.

It was nigh unprecedented. Romeo, Benvolio, and Mercutio bickered, of course, but serious fights were not at all common, least of all over girls. It was like looking up and realizing the sky had turned green. Or Capulet red.

It didn’t matter the exact arguments verbatim. The meaning was clear.

_Leave her_. 

_No_.

It was a flat answer, one that left no room for compromise. No one had ever seen Romeo this intractable before, so impermeable to reason. And while the three had their fair share of arguments, this one ranked among the worst.

He would not listen. Not only that, but he would turn away, staring out in the distance often, as though he heard someone calling his name. As though someone were calling him. 

His face had a kind of radiance to it. She could hardly describe it – it was almost like a glow. 

It was a familiar, in a way. It had a Rosaline-esque tint to it, the anxious, almost sickly expression of the suffering lover. But here, it shone even through his frustration. The anxiety wasn’t woebegone. It was hopeful.

In a sliver of a moment her heart hardened. She began to think some more on this Juliette. Juliette. What a milquetoast kind of name, all sugar and no flesh, no punch. It was pretty without being interesting, rhythmic without any kind of musicality, and memorable without being especially compelling – most likely, she thought darkly, like the girl herself. Esther may be an old-fashioned name, but at least it had some edge, some character. But what else could be expected from the sheltered _frou frou_ daughter of Capulet? What did Romeo see in her that he would turn his back on his family? On his friends? On _herself_?

The first bitter seed had been planted. 

* * *

 

Chagrined, but unsurprised. Of course, he had expected this. “I’m sorry, Esther.”

She did not reply to him. She refused to. What he had done deserved no reply.

They were in a private room upstairs at the warehouse. She had stormed out, not bothering to see how his argument with his friends panned out, unable to bear it. She hadn’t expected that he would notice and would actually follow her.

“We can’t leave things unresolved like this,” he said, as if he had read her mind. “You deserve to know, to understand –”

That’s it. She rounded on him. “Understand what? This mad thing you’ve done? Capulet’s _daughter_ , ‘Meo!”

“I didn’t know at first. When I did, it was too late, it didn’t matter. Esther –”

“And what about the Capels? Tybalt?” Then, for she could stand it no longer, the word bursting from her: “Me?”

There it was, what she had feared, what she hated. A softness in his hooded eyes.

“Oh, spare me,” she cried, “I don’t need your pity.”

She turned from him. His hand, wrapping around the tender flesh of her upper arm.

“Esther,” he said quietly. “You know what we had could not have lasted. And it has nothing to do with you. Nor with me. You know I love you, as a friend of old. And we were good together as something more. But this, with Juliette, it’s so much – more –”

The way he spoke her name, with such reverence! The sound chipped at her heart, gnawing on itself with jealousy. What was the cause of such devotion? Romeo was never content in love. Anything beyond animal spirits weighed heavy on him, made him moody and out-of-sorts.

But now he was happy. Tense, obviously, anxious, but happy. A palpable air of contentment had settled on him like fine dust.

“Right.” Tone tight, coiled like a spring. “You don’t love me, not in that way. Fine. Fine. I understand that. But don’t you dare tell me this isn’t another one of your little flames, Romeo Montaigu. Don’t you dare tell me this girl is special, unlike any other. I have seen you in and out far too many times. You’ve always bounced back, you’ve always recovered. Why should this time be any different?” She grabbed him, almost shaking him. “This isn’t a game, ‘Meo! This is the Capulets we’re talking about. Why can’t you just leave her?”

“You’re right,” he said finally. “This isn’t a game.”

And he shook her off, slowly, deliberately, to mitigate the sting of rejection.

“She is my wife, Esther,” he said, and he glowed a little at the sound. “I married her this afternoon.”

It was as if the ground, the world had turned to water, and he was speaking to her from the surface, the words muffled, incomprehensible.

“…Things aren’t the same,” he was saying. “I’ve never felt anything close to how I feel for her. From the moment I saw her, I knew, like a bolt of lightning. It has nothing to do with this stupid feud. If she weren’t a Capulet, I’d still feel the same. But as I’m hers, I’m a Capulet now. That’s why I can’t fight Tybalt. I’m sorry it must end this way – that we must end this way. You’re a great girl. You deserve a man who’ll love you as you deserve. But I can’t be without Juliette. Only death itself will part us now.”

The friend in Esther, the one who knew him for years, though shocked by this confession, understood this speech, however mad it might have seemed to others. Unlike true rakes, Romeo had always been intense in love, no matter how short-lived the infatuation was. Even to the point of defying the feud, something he had always been content to ignore.

But the lover in her, who had loved this beautiful, maddening youth for so long, wanted only to rip Juliette to shreds and take him back, conquer him, burning all trace of her with her touch.

The ambivalence of it prompted her into raw, cruel honesty.

“Does she love you?”

“What?”

“Does she love you, as I do?” she asked, and she wiped away the brimming tears furiously, hot and sudden. “Has she looked out for you, cared for you, covered for you for your mother when you were out with Benvolio and Mercutio? Has she let you crash in when you’re drunk or high? Does she know that, in two years’ time, you’ll inherit the seat of Montaigu, that you fear the very thought of it? Does she know anything about your father?”

His eyes grew flinty. “Stop.”

“Stop what? The truth? What do you know of her, and she of you? You only just met her yesterday, and yet you’d choose her over your own family, your own kind. What has she done to you, to make you betray us like this?”

She was flush against him, arms over his neck, cupping his warm cheek. He was still beautiful, even more so when he was like this, unreasonable. Like a dark, stoic Adonis.

“They say she was put up to this,” she said quietly, “that the Capels put her up as bait to seduce you, and then use that as an excuse to start a turf war. You didn’t think of that, did you?” He jerked away, in protest, but she held him firm. “Even if she did truly love you, what can she offer you that I or any other girl in town can’t give? Whatever appeal she has, I’ll match it. Whatever spell she has you under, I’ll break it.”

And she kissed his lips, warm and lush against hers, pouring all her store of love, many years’ worth, into his mouth.

For just the briefest of moments, Esther felt an immense relief, a surge of warm triumph. Here she was with him, kissing him, not Juliette, not anybody, hers for more than a moment, hers for good. He had never seemed more desirable to her than he was in that moment, emotionally out of reach. Then the bubble burst.

Folly. Pure folly. It was a mere meeting of flesh, pressing against each other. The hard wall of teeth, into the armor of his self, like a lone knight against a fortress, she could not pierce. Her persuasion slid from him like a bead of sweat on skin. He only had to turn his head slightly away, pronounced jawline tight, to break the contact. The full brunt of her humiliation fell. Screwed against the howling misery within her, she turned away, burying her face in her hands.

She had mistook Juliette for a phantom, a mere word, and she for flesh and blood. She had not realized that Juliette had been there all along. That it was the other way around.

“I have to go,” he said. “Esther, please.”

But she could not respond. She could barely even hear him leave over the sound of rushing blood.

 

* * *

 

And then chaos.

Orsina sobbed over her love’s dead body, in a desperate way she never heard, in a way that made Esther very, very frightened, her blood ice in her veins. How could it be that, in a sliver of a moment, everything could change?  

Gathered about Friar Lawrence’s cell, the church being neutral territory. The Prince had threatened sympathizers as well, but Montaigus were a loyal crowd. Mercutio had been as good as theirs, and Tybalt had been a troublemaker. Romeo had merely been defending one of their own. They made sure no one could see them.

Twin griefs battled in Esther’s chest, but at the sight of him, sallow-faced and dazed, all the pain, hurt, confusion, anger, jealousy she had felt reduced in significance. Her love, her friend, was banished, and most likely she would never see him again. She embraced him, and he reciprocated, surprisingly firm.

“Live on,” she breathed. “I forgive you.” _I love you._

In the end, Benvolio had to peel her away from him.

 

* * *

 

The mystery of the heart, a perpetual question. She had thought, in her biased, limited view, that no one’s love could best her own for Romeo. It was her sole consolation, those lonely years watching his girls come and go. Sometimes the break-ups would be his fault, sometimes theirs. One did not love him enough, the other too much; this one thought the sun rose and set for him, the other anatomized his faults to a fine science, with a keen eye toward reform. But this was a banal conceit, an exercise in comparing like to like, earthly love with earthly love. Juliette Capulet had completely defied all the parameters of loving Romeo Montaigu. From the start, hers had seemed an edict of destiny.

In time to come, when she had lived her life, got married, had children, Esther would think about these kinds of love, most normal and quotidian, the garden variety that either leads to break-ups and heartbreaks, misunderstandings and jealousies, stable commitments, and steady unions. Then the grand passions, memorable and commanding in their capacity to demand and bend the general will to their own ends. Those did not last long, but like a hurricane they caused destruction in their wake, a sea change of lives. They linger in the general memory, transforming into legend, legend to myth, and then mere plot fodder for the working playwright’s pen. Romeo was not hers any longer, perhaps he never truly was. His name was forever tied with hers, entwined like ribands into one thread, one sound.

But that did not mitigate or remove the pain, the trauma of seeing him, still and pristine as if he were in a light sleep, like he had looked the day they first made love. The girl, Juliette, an ethereal beauty distinct from her own dark looks, was nestled close to him, as if she too was lying with him, snuggling after lovemaking. Her lovely blonde curls were almost completely tinged with blood, and hid her face from view.

Nothing was the same. No one was the same. Benvolio would disappear often, alienated from them, from the world. The last she heard of him, he was embroiled in a scandal with a Capulet servant, a redheaded mute girl, whom he was seriously courting.

A gloomy peace fell on Verona. That she had to lose one of her best loves, and that he had to give his life for another to secure it, was the bitterest cut of all.


End file.
